• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    With Her Besom In Her Hand

    With her besom in her hand,
    After having swept the floor –
    O! she made a picture grand,
    Framed within the open door.

    Picture grand! – eyes never saw,
    Hand of artist never drew
    Aught so fair and free from flaw,
    As the maid that met my view.

    I have roamed in many climes,
    Many oceans have I crossed,
    Been in love some dozen times,
    Seen of handsome girls a host.

    Yet, she was the fairest fair,
    Ever I set eyes upon;
    Beautiful beyond compare –
    Brighter than the noon day sun.

    Did I love her? – are you wise
    To put such a question, sir?
    Sure I loved my very eyes –
    ‘Cause they loved to look at her.

    What ? – describe her ? – deed I’ll not,
    Shakespear, Dryden, Goldsmith,
    Though they wrote and read a lot
    Could not do it, I am sure.

    Forty years from then have flown;
    Now if her you’d like to see
    There’s a cabin in Tyrone;
    Where she dwells, my wife, with me.

    We have children o’er the waves,
    Some have settled in Tyrone;
    Some are sleeping in their graves
    Soon we’ll take the road they’ve gone.

    Now I am an old, old man,
    She’s an old, old woman now;
    Her once rosy cheeks are wan,
    Time and toil have marked her brow.

    Still I love her as of yore –
    Though she’s not as fresh and grand
    As when standing in her door,
    With her besom in her hand.